


Love Letters

by Gleefullymacabre



Series: Love Letters [1]
Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 21:50:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7591675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gleefullymacabre/pseuds/Gleefullymacabre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soulmate AU. When she writes on her skin, it shows up on his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Notes

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the following Tumblr prompt: http://let-gavin-free.tumblr.com/post/117673589548/soulmate-au-where-when-you-write-something-on-your
> 
> For the sake of this story, the ability is gendered. Women write, men read. F/F soulmates often become penpals. M/M soulmates can use genetic testing to find their soulmate, or forego the soulmate thing altogether and just find someone they like. 
> 
> The forearm of the non-dominant hand is somewhat sexualized, and often covered. Anything on that area of skin is between soulmates.

Marianne scrawled the address on the underside of her wrist. “8:30. AM or PM? Dinner then…” She added the time to her pulse point. “You know I hate dinner interviews. It’s too much like a date.”

Her assistant did not respond to the complaint, and instead provided the restaurant information. Obediently, the author added this information to her arm, and promised to be there on time. 

* * * * *

She was late.

A twenty shoved at the cabbie covered the fare and tip. She jogged as best she could in 4-inch heels to the door of the restaurant. She reached for the door handle only to bump into another hand.

“Sorry,” the tall man grumbled. He strode into the building on too-long legs without even holding the door open for her. Marianne hissed at his back in irritation. “Scaly-backed cockroach.” She managed to hold her temper long enough to give her name to the maître d’ with some semblance of courtesy and be led to a table.

She sat alone for the moment, the interviewer also running late.

“Scaly-backed cockroach….”

Marianne dug a pen out of her purse.

She pulled up the loose sleeve of her dress, but her arm had no empty spaces left. Notes, ideas, phrases, quotes covered every spare inch of skin. She tapped the pen against the water goblet, and finally wrote on her palm. A bit taboo, but if she kept her hand closed, no one would notice.

“Scaly-backed cockroach?”

Marianne looked up in shock. The tall man from the door sat a few tables away, staring at his palm in confusion. He looked up and scanned the room, his eyes locked on every face as though he was looking for someone. Someone he knew would be at that restaurant, at that time. Like he had translated a messy scribble on his wrist and did not want to miss this chance. Like he had been running late and feared he would miss… her.

“Would you believe me if I said I meant someone else?” Marianne asked. Her face felt warm, but she could not hold back a sheepish smile.

Blue eyes darted to her face, then to the insult on his palm and back. Broad shoulders sagged in relief and he smiled back at her.

“No. But I’ll forgive ye’ if you join me fer dinner.”


	2. Doodles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This installment: Potionless

Dawn added the final touch to this last flower: a double-spiral in place of a stem. Most mornings, she would draw one or two tiny pictures, and add to these during the day. This morning, she felt inspired. Her entire left forearm danced with ink from the daisy chain circling her wrist to the polka-dots on her elbow. 

She carried the habit for years and could not bring herself to drop it. So many daydreams of finding the cute boy wearing her scribbles danced through her mind. Her perfect match. Dawn could not help a shriek of glee at the thought.

But… but what if he did not like her hobby? Suppose he hated having his arm covered by such childish drawings?

Dawn pulled a baggy sweater on over her tank top, the pale blue sleeves long enough to cover her entire hand. She grabbed her phone and saw that the impulse to draw had made her late. 

“I should just introduce myself or something,” Dawn muttered, pressing the Send button to let Sunny know she was leaving. “Probably wouldn’t be too shocking. He’s seen me lose to myself in tic-tac-toe.”

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Sunny woke to a familiar tickle on his left wrist. He watched with a lazy smile as a ring of daisies bloomed on his skin. Most days, the drawings appeared little by little, one after another over the course of hours. He would feel the telltale sensation at sporadic moments and know that when he got the chance to look, he would find a new drawing had appeared. He usually missed out on watching as lines traced themselves along his arm.

She must be in a good mood today, he thought as the space filled with whimsical doodles, wavy lines curled carefully around like a gauntlet and filled with sketchy planets and stars. On and on for nearly an hour until the last spare patch filled with a spiraling stem attached to a flower. The pleasant itch faded, leaving the changeless marks until his soulmate chose to remove them.

It would be easy to love this girl, Sunny knew, when they finally met. She seemed… fun. A little silly, maybe – he smiled at the memory of his arm filled with games of tic-tac-toe. But the knowledge that he had a destined match left him a bit hollow, and the pleasure at watching her marks appear tended to be bittersweet.

Sunny’s phone buzzed as he buttoned his shirt, the checked flannel sleeves long enough to cover the daisy chain. Dawn’s text informed him she was heading over for their usual Saturday plans. Breakfast followed by whatever whim they cared to indulge. Excitement bubbled up from his belly into a smile, as it always did when he and Dawn got the chance to spend time together. 

Sunny rubbed his arm with a shaky sigh. Sometimes—often-- he wished there were no soulmates.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Sunny grinned at the lengthening list of emojis Dawn sent. ‘So I’ll have all the best ones in the Frequently Used area and not have to look for them,’ she’d explained. It took a while until she was finally satisfied that her top picks had been used frequently enough. Sunny took it for nerves. She had been flightier than usual all day, which tended to mean she had something on her mind. He did not bother asking about it. He would find out soon enough.

His phone plugged in for the night, he switched off the lamp on his nightstand and settled in to sleep. He had barely closed his eyes when that familiar tickle started up again. Worried, Sunny scrambled to get the lamp on. His arm had been bare for hours, scrubbed clean when his soulmate washed the ink away. She never added anything new this late. 

Grateful for short sleeved pajamas, Sunny looked at the top of his wrist, and sank back against the pillows, stunned by the three words tattooed to his skin:

“Hi. I’m Dawn.”


	3. Address

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Kinda Subtle chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff = Stephanie  
> Thang = Thane

“Your server will be with you shortly.”

 

Stephanie waited until the hostess had other customers to seat before tugging up the knit sleeve of her dress.  She kept her arm out of sight beneath the table.  She did not want to get kicked out of a venue for public indecency. Again.

 

The restaurant printed its information on the back of the menu.  In precise letters, she copied the name of the restaurant and the street address to the underside of her left arm, followed by the city, state, and zip code. Beneath this she added “green dress, brown heels”.  A simplified description of her current outfit, but accurate enough that someone could recognize her, if he knew where to look.

 

She pulled her sleeve back into place and opened her menu.  She scanned the list of uninspired entrees and thought, not for the first time, that she should research restaurants in new cities rather than choosing at random.  Questionable dining options were a hazard of a travel-heavy career, but the alternative was to stay in one spot with nothing to do except wait.

 

Fingernails tapping against the water glass, Stephanie watched the door.

 

The waitress took her order --  a generic chicken dish.  Stephanie started to wonder.

 

She moved her arms to allow a plate to be set in front of her.  _He could be working late,_ she thought.  _Or odd hours. The night shift, and he just clocked on and can’t leave._

 

She nibbled the bland meal, hyperaware of the ink beneath her clothes. _Maybe he’s a traditionalist? Does he think I’m too forward? He might want more mystery._

She flipped through the dessert menu. Dessert added at least twenty minutes to any meal.  _If he wants a mystery,_ she decided, _then he’s not right for me, soulmate or no soulmate._

 

She scraped the last drops of fudge from her bowl, resigned to the simplest explanation.   _He doesn’t live here._

 

Stephanie sat back and took a deep breath.  “One more city off the list,” she murmured.  “Dozens more to go.”  She signed the check and tucked the credit card back in her purse.

 

Back in her hotel room, she scrubbed her arm clean and started packing for the morning flight home.  It might be easier to tolerate so many dinners-for-one that never became dinner-for-two if she had some way of knowing her soulmate would meet her halfway. That he tried to reach her at all.

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

Thane grabbed the flowers from the passenger seat of his car and slammed the door.  He was too late. He knew he was too late.  The address had appeared on his arm with the customary sting almost two hours ago, and if he looked now it would be gone.  The writing never lasted more than 90 minutes at a stretch.  But she had never been so close before.  He had tried, in the past, to reach her.  He had earned more than a few speeding tickets in attempts to reach another town or neighboring state before his only clue could be scrubbed away. He never made it on time.

 

But this time, he recognized the address.  He knew the restaurant.  A familiar spot just on the other side of the city.

 

His boss already gone for the day (the man tended to be a workaholic, but started leaving early to spend time with his own soulmate), Thane closed his computer and fled the office minutes after the message had appeared.  He made one quick detour to a florist, and found himself stuck in rush hour traffic, behind slow drivers, and on a road with three of the four lanes closed for construction.  The twenty-minute drive stretched into an eternity.

 

Thane flinched as the door to the restaurant banged against the wall, opened far too hard in his rush.  He peered through the thick lenses of his glasses around the dining room, but saw no one who matched the description on his arm.  He swallowed his disappointment and approached the hostess.  “Was there someone here earlier?  A woman in a green dress?  We were supposed to meet…”

 

“There was,” she answered slowly, eyes flicking from Thane to a small table against the wall.  “She left a while ago. I’m so zorry.”

 

He thanked her and walked out with slumped shoulders.  He examined the carnations in his hand, irritated at the impulsive purchase.  So pretty in the shop, the stems had been crushed by his nervous hands.  Petals and leaves sagged against one another.

 

He dropped the battered bouquet in a nearby trash can.

 

There would be another chance, he assured himself.  He would just have to get there faster. Find a quicker route.

 

And next time, he would not stop to buy flowers.


	4. Song Lyrics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Roland
> 
> Kendi is the human name for the sprite/bug/whatever from the first stinger of the film.

The lock did not click when she turned her key.  Kendi frowned and turned the handle.  As expected, the door opened. Her roommate had left it unlocked.  Again.

 

She locked the door with a deliberate click and walked to the living room. The last thing she wanted was another argument, but their neighborhood was not safe. Kendi’s waitressing job did not provide her many things worth stealing, but she did not want to lose what little she owned.

 

Her roommate, as expected, sat on the couch with the ancient television on. Exactly where Kendi had left her that morning.  “Ingrid, I hate to bring this up -- Are those my pens?”

 

Ingrid’s eyes stayed on her knee, focused on the yellow gel lines that poured onto her skin.  “No, Twig,” she sneered, using Kendi’s much hated nickname. “I never touched your pens.”

 

Kendi’s lips pressed together. Ingrid only every used a felt-tip pen the color of blood.

 

Ingrid glanced up, the edges of her mouth turned up in the mean little smirk of someone who relished every fight and always got her way.

 

Kendi froze for a moment, her Fight-or-Flight response stalled while she weighed her options.  Her thoughts turned toward the pages printed off at the library, tucked safely and secretly in her bag.  Kendi turned on her heel and walked away.  Ingrid gave a disparaging snort behind her back, but Kendi refused to feel defeated.  After being used on someone else’s skin -- a leg, of all places -- she did not want those pens back, anyway.

 

The door to her room opened at a touch, the lock broken from the outside if the scratches around the handle were any indication.  Kendi moved her laundry basket in front of the door to keep it closed, if not secured.  Assured of a modicum of privacy, she pulled the precious sheets from her bag. A half dozen advertisements for roommates, all in better areas and with lowers rents.  Kendi knew she paid more than her share in rent and utilities. Her grocery bill had never been higher, and Ingrid never replaced cleaning supplies or toilet paper.  She had needed a room quickly, though.  Her ex-boyfriend, after months of rhapsodizing on the freedom of choosing love for love’s sake, kicked her out when he found his soulmate.

 

Kendi rubbed her right arm at the thought of Keith, who always reminded her of Brian, her first love, who wanted to keep their soulmarks hidden and share them on their wedding night.  Only weeks later, she realized he only kept his left arm hidden, somehow never noticing that Kendi was not right-handed.

 

She shook off the pain of past mistakes. Tomorrow, she would go through these advertisements with her therapist, discuss red-flags or questionable behaviors she should be on guard for, and role-play conversations with potential roommates.  She would learn to avoid liars and manipulators and people who interfered with her privacy and stole her things.

 

Kendi sat on her bed, a lumpy mattress on the bare floor, and saw a few gel pens still sitting in the red plastic cup she used for storage.  Of course, Ingrid had only taken the half-used pens, the pink and yellow and orange. Kendi’s favorites.  The cool shades left behind did not meld with the warm tones of her skin the way she preferred.

 

She looked again at the pages scattered before her, then riffled through her purse for the battered MP3 player.   She plugged the buds into her ears, scrolled to a David Bowie track, pulled up her right sleeve, and plucked a pen from the cup.  In careful script, Kendi drew the lyrics in milky green, stark against her dark flesh.

 

#     #     #     #     #    

 

Roalnd ran his fingers through his hair, coating each strand with just enough product to make it shine and curl just right, and considered the Marianne Problem.

 

Now that she had her soulmate, a reconciliation seemed ulikely. Worse, his “love shouldn’t left to Fate” line would fall flat. She had her creepy destined lover were perfect for each other.  Roland scowled at his reflection, then schooled his features into a more distinguished sneer. His rival already had a fortune to his name, yet he barged in on Roland’s chance for more.

 

He left the marbled bathroom, rubbing a vague pinch on his right wrist.  His feet sank into the plush carpet of his spacious luxury condo, easy to afford with the high payouts from his sales commissions.  Still, it was no mansion.  His name-brand suits and shirts, each tailored to perfection, were not bespoke. He kept only a single sports care in the downstairs garage, a rental so each year he could drive the latest model.  Not a patch on owning a collection.

 

And he had been so close!  Only little farewell fling before their wedding and she lost her head. If not for that giant bug showing up, Roland knew he could have talked Marianne down from her fit.

 

Now months of work would go to waste. He had used every skill honed while climbing from an upstart rookie to the highest-grossing salesman in the county to worm his way into her good graces.  He scrubbed at his arm, agitated by the persistent sting.  It would take weeks to find a new heiress, and he would have to start all over. Get introduced, figure out what she liked, _be_ that guy. Exhausting.

 

Except how could he compete with a soulmate?

 

Roland prowled by his floor-to-ceiling windows and resisted looking at the sore skin on his arm.  There had never been anything on his on his skin except hair and the odd attractive freckle. _Bare from birth_ , he thought with a snarl he did not bother to correct. He did not _need_ a soulmate.  Everyone else wasted their time chasing some predetermined match selected by no one even knew. He was _lucky_ to lack a soulmate.  Free.  If it meant he also lacked a soul like the stories said, so be it. He could make his own destiny; pursue any path he chose.  He just had to visualize, find the path, and make it happen.

 

But he could not think this this damn scratching!

 

Roland fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. The pain in his arm had been a constant irritant throughout his life, most often manifested at night.  Once he thought it could be his soulmate reaching out for him, but there were never any marks. No dull greys from a marker or muted blue from a ballpoint.  Soulmarks might fade while crossing whatever mystic lines connected two people, but never vanished entirely.  Roalnd resolved to see a doctor about it, just in case he had arm cancer or something, and pulled off his shirt.

 

There were words on his skin.

 

Green words, almost illegible in their pallor. They might have been invisible if not for the unnatural color.

 

Roland fell back against his floor-to-ceiling windows. The green words grew blurry as he sank down to his plush carpet.  His dazed mind could pick out a few works of the … poem?  Song? He recognized the lyrics after a fashion. A song about things changing.

 

His hand, he one free from the prick of a distant pen, clenched into his perfect hair as he forced himself to breathe.

 

“It’s okay,” he told himself.  “This doesn’t change a thing. Just visualize … visualize…”

 

_Visualize what_? he thought wildly.  For decades he sought out his own path. Everything he worked for build on the knowledge that he had no one to live for but himself. No soul tied to his. No one in the world waiting for him.

 

Now someone the thought did not exist clawed for his attention.

 

The back of Roalnd’s head thunked against the clear glass.  Green letters carved into his arm as he chanted his motto in a hollow voice.  “Visualize… visualize…”

 

_What am I supposed to do now?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song in question is "Changes" by David Bowie


End file.
